


if it's you

by xuyue



Series: edo period verse [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst?, Concubines, Edo Period, F/M, classism mention, colourism mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29808192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xuyue/pseuds/xuyue
Summary: In edo period japan, you are selected to serve as a concubine.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Series: edo period verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191095
Kudos: 21





	if it's you

**Author's Note:**

> do NOT recommend or mention my fics on tiktok. i will nail you in the eye with my blu-ray dvd copy of life of pi.

The first time Oikawa encounters you, he is immediately intrigued.

A dozen women kneel before him in deference, their intricate garments and expensive jewelry displaying their statuses of great wealth and noble birth. You sit at the end of the line, standing out immediately with your head raised above the others in a pitiful show of resistance.

Your hair is less adorned than your companions, your nails chipped in places, and your _kosode_ of poorer make than what would even be _allowed_ on his servants. Your tan skin and poor manners are telling of an upbringing in the country, perhaps even near the far sea. 

It is the very picture of intrigue. 

And according to experience, this would mean that you have something _much more_ to other to offer than gold or status.

He stops in front of you, not bothering to turn in your direction.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a mere drawl.

In his peripheral vision he sees you stiffen and he expects, for a second, that you’ll disobey him. He thinks he’s seen your type before; bitter and defiant, holding anger towards the way the world works.

(He has no use for angry women. Not in his court and certainly not as one of his companions.)

However, to his pleasant surprise, you begin to raise your head slowly.

The _bira-bira_ above your left ear tinkles lightly as you look up to him, your eyes lowered to avoid meeting his. Your face is painted as all the rest; vibrant reds that accentuate your eyes and lips. But a smear of crimson runs down your cheek, dragging harsh lines that run through the pale paint on your face. An accident, no doubt, but it almost causes a laugh to bubble from his throat.

As if sensing this, the look in your eyes hardens and your eyes flash to his, as if to challenge him directly.

_So what,_ you seemingly convey, through stormy eyes. _Laugh all you want. You are nothing to me._

He turns away, holding back a smirk and feels a surge of validation.

He was right, of course. It wasn’t your money or family that had gotten you here.

Undoubtedly, it was your looks.

-

You become his favourite, although he tries his best not to show it.

He can’t pinpoint what it is exactly. Perhaps it’s refreshing that you don’t remember the exact etiquette of serving tea. Or perhaps it’s the way that you can’t hold back vocalizing your thoughts, only covering your mouth when the words have already slipped from your tongue.

Your voice carries the softest hint of an accent; lilted vowels and extra weight at the end of your words—like you’re leaning into your sentences. The whispers around him mention how _civilian_ it sounds; how very _crude_ and _unfitting_ it is for the court.

If it were anyone he liked less he would agree.

But it’s _you._

You with your striking, angry eyes, and loose tongue. With your _kanzashi_ always askew and the windswept smell of the fields beyond the palace walls in your hair. How could he _not_ hold you in the highest regard?

He’s careful to only ask for your presence once a moon—he’s not so pathetically oblivious to the politics of concubines within his own walls—but when he has you, he savours every moment.

You tell him stories of the sea and your mother and how you nearly died at age seven of a fever.

(He tells you that he _also_ nearly succumbed to a fever in childhood and you both laugh at the memories of delirium and worry from the adults around you.)

(He tells you he’s glad you didn’t die.)

(You give him a small smile and tell him the same.)

-

One midsummer night he asks for you again.

Unexpectedly, he gets caught up in a meeting with a couple of visiting clan heads. Pleasantries are exchanged and meals are shared but even with every formality expended, he still can’t find an excuse to end the talks early.

They drone on and on about the anticipated grain stocks for the coming winter (and he _knows_ these are important. Trust him, he really _knows._ ) but all he can think about is how he’s keeping you waiting. Alone. With lukewarm tea and a mouthful of stories about the going-ons of his own court.

The thought of losing time with you twists at his insides.

He clears his throat, interrupting a dispute about troop allocation amongst their respective borders and insists that the discussion is best had after a good night’s sleep.

Much to his relief, his companions reluctantly agree and bid him a good night and he does the same, promising a resolution to the issue in the following morning.

He breathes a sigh of relief when they parade out of earshot, allowing his posture to fall just below acceptable as he exhales. He decides then that being clan head is a responsibility he would never wish upon another.

Wasting no time, he hurries to his quarters where you are no doubt waiting on his presence, almost tripping as he does.

(Thankfully no one is around to witness this)

As he approaches his quarters, he hears something unfamiliar; something fantastic that he hasn’t had the pleasure of hearing before.

It’s your voice, no doubt, melodious and clear. But your accent is unsuppressed now, your words coming out in those beautiful odd vowels that he has come to love.

You sing of the ocean and of the will of the gods, of a mourning father and his lost daughter. The lyrics seem all too familiar to you; as if they’re spun from the sinews of your own heart, of your being.

He can’t help but feel the sorrow in your words; a tragedy in a lullaby from a land far away. And it breaks his heart, it truly does.

But if he is to choose between undoing your anguish and keeping your by his side, he knows he cannot fulfil your wish.

He only prays that you grow to love him as much as he has grown to love you.

**Author's Note:**

> current concern: i am now 20% tapioca.   
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/Iunaryear) | [tumblr](https://stelleum.tumblr.com)


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